


Bound

by AV_Dragnire, incredulousanteater



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood and Injury, Demon Summoning, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AV_Dragnire/pseuds/AV_Dragnire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/incredulousanteater/pseuds/incredulousanteater
Summary: Five figures surrounded an awfully familiar pattern gouged into the concrete floor, and sitting in the middle of the pattern, chained and blindfolded, was an equally awfully familiar demon.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 524
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019.  
> I had the pleasure of collaborating with two amazing artists on it, [Ami V Dragnire](https://ami-v-dragnire.tumblr.com/) and [@nathansinart](https://nathansinart.tumblr.com/)  
> Many thanks to my lovely beta, [quicksilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksilvermalec/pseuds/quicksilver)!

Summonings were an inconvenience that ranked up with rush-hour traffic or slow internet connections, for the most part. (Only, slow traffic and internet didn’t usually involve the bloody sacrifice of an unlucky animal.) You’d be minding your own business—perhaps scolding the houseplants after a long day of foiled misdeeds or stretched half asleep over a too-big, too-empty mattress, wondering what the Enemy might be reading at the moment—and then, maybe a few seconds warning before you’re picking your corporation up off the ground and blinking at unfamiliar surroundings. Which tended to be gloomy or damp or stinking of rotten root vegetables, or a mixture of all three. Really, it wasn’t as if there was a set of rules that prohibited summonings from being performed someplace that wasn’t a dirty basement for once. And _then_ , whichever human had gotten their hands on knowledge they shouldn’t have would start demanding things of you in poorly-executed Latin. 

They asked for things like good fortune, or healing, or protection. Things that they’d perhaps prayed for, prayed to _Her_ for, and remained undelivered, unanswered. So they turned to Crowley instead, and that never failed to instill a sense of bitter amusement in him. He’d humor them, sometimes, would restore a child dying of an illness, or offer them just enough money to get by another week, or, in one memorable occasion, bring a tire-flattened cat’s corpse back to life with a snap of his fingers (the tearful cat’s owner had been nice enough, and desperate enough, _and_ he’d sworn off demon summoning for the rest of his life, so Crowley’d figured why not.)

They asked for things like plagues, and death, and war. Things that made his stomach twist, made him question his place. They turned to him because, well—he _was_ evil, wasn’t he? A demon, Crawly the serpent, the one who’d tempted humanity into sin, just the sort of entity you’d summon for those things. He wasn’t in the business of indulging those requests, if he could help it. In most cases, after he’d heard their requests—or demands, he’d step out of the messy scrawl of runes meant to hold him, much to the horror of his summoners. Oh, there were sigils and binding runes that _worked_ on him, but the problem with them was you had to make sure you used the _right_ ones, and you had to _perfect_ them. One crooked or out-of-place line and the entire thing was useless. Most humans tended to mess it up fantastically. 

But sometimes humans got it right. (Usually those humans were witches.)

And he’d have no choice but to comply, when the binding spell was implemented correctly. With whatever they asked. He was lucky when they just _asked_ for things, information or riches or good fortune. But they didn’t always want what he offered them: they wanted _him_. Summoning a demon was popular among religious fanatics, those who fancied themselves vanquishers of evil, or just plain bored people who had the means, even, or witches, and what they all wanted with Crowley was less than pleasant.

He remembered the last time he’d been summoned inside a church. He’d appeared on his hands and knees, and the _burning_ caught him by surprise. Clamoring voices had filled his ears as he scrambled to his feet, and those burned too. A glance around his surroundings had explained it—he stood on consecrated ground. He’d barely had time to process the situation before they started in with an exorcism. The young man who recited it obviously didn’t speak Latin well, voice wobbling nervously and butchering the words to the point of uselessness. It might’ve actually worked if he just used English. Less potent, probably, but better than this. But Crowley wasn’t going to let him know that. Instead, he began to fake what most humans imagined they might see when they witnessed an exorcism. Wailing and screaming and shouting in pain, he dropped back to his knees, and convulsed theatrically. The boy was near the last verses when the smell of holy water hit Crowley, and his pulse seized in real panic. He forgot the act for a few moments, but saved it by sprawling onto his side and falling silent, ignoring the burning that was all along his side that grew more intense as the seconds passed. Willed blood into his lungs and coughed it onto the floor. It didn’t sizzle, like hot fat cast into a frying pan. Of course it didn’t. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He stilled his breath to further the illusion. The boy didn’t stop, but one of his companions knelt by Crowley’s side, a hand coming to check his pulse. And then Crowley felt, suddenly—the circle was broken, somehow. (The man had inadvertently brushed away the chalk that formed the circle when he knelt down.)

He didn’t waste another second at the risk of a holy water shower, and time stopped itself, just long enough for him stumble a safe distance away from the church. Once it started again, he didn’t stop moving, not until he’d found his way to the street, and an unoccupied taxi, and directed them to take him to the nearest place that offered privacy and a bed for the night. Crowley hadn’t been too sure where he was, but the taxi, and the cars on the street besides it made it very apparent he was somewhere in America. _The Lone Star State,_ the license plates read on a closer look. 

“Here you are, sir,” the taxi driver said as he pulled up to a motel that made Crowley wish he’d been a bit more selective in his orders, but he got out and passed the man a wad of banknotes. The driver frowned down at them, “I don’t accept—”

“Something wrong?” 

“Yeah,” he looked back down, did a double take at the twenty-dollar bills he now held. “I mean, no. Must’ve imagined it. Have a nice night.” 

“Mm,” Crowley acknowledged through a thin smile that probably didn’t do much to hide his weary irritation, and headed inside the dilapidated motel. 

Figuring out getting the key card into the slot and opening the door by the time the little indicator-light finished flashing green took a few tries, and the burns smarted as he finally wrenched it open. Once he was inside, the smell of mildew invading his senses, he lurched towards the chipped sink. The tap water tasted awful, but he cared more about rinsing the blood out of his mouth. Acid-yellow eyes stared back at him once he finally lifted his head. He couldn’t remember when he’d lost the glasses. A glance revealed the palms of his hands were visibly burned, and took some effort to peel off his shirt. Angry red skin blistered and peeled all along his side, where he’d lain on the church floor. 

Exhausted and more than shaken by the night’s events, Crowley flopped onto the double mattress and stared listlessly up at the mold-speckled ceiling. He let sleep begin to take him, eyes shuttering closed. His mind was starting to swim when a glimpse of pale parchment flashed behind his eyes, neat copperplate writing scribbled across it, and Crowley snapped back into drowsy awareness. _Aziraphale._ He was going to meet with him—he’d been about to leave, before he was summoned, and it had completely slipped his mind until now. Well. The time they’d agreed upon had passed by now, and worrying about it wouldn’t fix anything. He’d catch a flight back to London, tomorrow. After he’d just rested. Just for a little while…

The longest he’d been trapped inside a binding circle was two years. And, well, demonic lifespan aside, waiting around in place all day, every day, for two years, was boring, no matter how you looked at it. The witch who’d trapped him didn’t visit too often, and only came to take something from him or her cellar, but he’d found himself looking forward to her visits, oddly enough. It wasn’t as if the rats that resided in the untidy cellar were the best conversationalists. They ignored him for the most part once they realized he couldn’t do anything to them, went about their daily lives as usual and even scurried over his feet on occasion, which made it feel as if the little beasts were mocking him. They probably were. 

In the end, the plump rodents were Crowley’s deliverance. It was just after one had hurried across the painted lines that he couldn’t cross that he noticed. _The paint showed signs of wear._ The off-red paint that decorated the floor had grown dull around the edges, and in places it was enough to nearly break the twisting designs. The laughter that had bubbled from his throat was a rough, raspy thing that sounded more like he was being strangled than laughing, and the rat, on her way towards an overturned, cobweb-laden basket, turned and stared in alarm. A few more snouts poked from dark crevices, whiskers twitching in curiosity at the unexpected noise. 

He stared at them thoughtfully, and reached out. The rat nearest stiffened as it felt the demonic influence settling over her, then dropped into a relaxed stance. She began creeping back towards Crowley…

And suddenly stopped, beady black eyes almost reproachful as she turned tail once again and went about her business. Crowley slumped back with a groan, the headache that had been building like ominous soot-colored storm clouds the moment he’d reached past the bounds finally breaking with a vengeance, pounding against his skull, hailstones against fragile windowpanes. 

The next time the witch visited him, his heart jumped into throat, an inner voice telling him, any moment now—she was going to notice, and she was going to renew the lines. She didn’t, just made her usual rounds and turned the light out before she went. And so the waiting began. At that point, he’d be stuck here another year or two before the paint was broken. That was where the rats came in. 

He was gradually to exert more influence whispering past the bounds as time—and the paint—wore away. Once again, he attempted to influence the rats. They seemed his best option, and slowly they moved away from what they were doing, crept from whatever holes they hid in, and gravitated towards Crowley. A strained smile lit his face, and suddenly, scratching at the paint beneath them was the most important task they’d ever known. Less than a few minutes of tiny rodent claws scratching at the paint, and he could feel—its grip hung on by a thread, unreliable, flickering like the last embers in a dying fire. The fresh gash on his forearm, from when he’d had his blood taken by the witch, scabbed over, and he gritted his teeth at the intense itch. It formed a puffy pink scar and faded, paler and paler until it disappeared into his skin, and Crowley felt the binding fail finally. 

He stepped from the circle, turning his attention to the rats after he’d replaced his worn and threadbare clothes. 

“Well, I can’t say I’ll miss all of you,” Crowley told them. “You understand I’d really rather forget every second I spent in this place. Outstanding job, though.” A few high-pitched squeaks informed him the rats would in no way miss him, either. 

As for the witch—he knew nothing about her past that day except that with her stolen good luck had turned, spoiled like something left in a corner to rot, would follow her no matter where she went, no matter what she did to stop it. He didn’t care to know anything else. 

Those certainly weren’t the only instances he’d been summoned, and possibly not the most painful, although damage done to his corporation, while unpleasant, wasn’t the worst thing Crowley could imagine. No, he’d much rather be summoned and promptly stabbed through the heart, a classic that had happened more than once, than spend years rotting away in a cellar. 

And after that last one, and receiving a new body—he’d thought Hell would a be more lenient for something out of his control like that—after all, a fair few demons besides Crowley had had their share of being summoned—he hadn’t been summoned again. He hoped the knowledge was lost. 

Clearly it wasn’t, because at the very moment he was materializing inside a ring of binding runes. It took a few moments longer than usual to recover his senses as he struggled to keep his favorite form pieced together. Smell, always the first thing that came to him, refused to describe the room for Crowley—instead he nearly choked on the taste of myrrh and frankincense. He opened his eyes, holding back the urge to gag as well as the sudden irrational sense that he’d been blinded by the loss of scent. The room was dim, thankfully. People always kept the room dim when they summoned demons, although it was perhaps to do with the places they chose to summon demons in. Either way, it made it easier for him to see through the screen of smoke from the burning incense. 

The circle he stood in was larger than he was used to, left room enough to pace about like a caged animal, which he essentially _was._ And it was more intricate than he was used to. The sigils that held him had been etched into the concrete floor, deep, spiraling gouges that reminded him of a hellhound’s claws. The walls were marked, too, by carefully painted runes of protection that spanned over multiple religions. Some of them he didn’t recognize, held no meaning or power over him. Others buzzed at the edge of his senses, a constant source of faint discomfort, and he felt a headache building as he focused his gaze on some for a little too long. They’d taken no liberties, it seemed. 

_They_ stood around the binding circle, dressed in the typical demon-summoning black. Five of them, situated around the circle. The one who faced him held a book. Looked old, pages ruffled and curling. _Looked like something that belonged in his a—Aziraphale’s bookshop._ Her face was partially concealed, obscured by an oversized hood draped over her head. The others had turned to look at her, wide eyed. The leader of the group, then. The woman to his left was dressed much the same way, a few strands of pale hair trailing past the hood of her robes. Her counterpart to his right radiated stiff nervousness, and Crowley couldn’t smell anything, but he knew if he could the stench of fear would be radiating off the man. He twitched a little at the scrutinization. Crowley spared a quick glance behind himself, trying to get a good look at whoever was there. They hunched their shoulders and didn’t move otherwise as he did so. 

Not one spoke, and Crowley decided to take the opening. “Not to be—” he paused when his sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose an inch. Grimacing in annoyance, he slid them back in to place. They were a new pair, and they had the habit of doing that. He silently resolved to switch back to the old pair as soon as he’d dealt with whatever it was he’d been summoned for. By the expressions on the summoners’ faces, it was evident they’d caught a glimpse of his eyes. Leader was watching him like a hawk fixated on its prey, and Twitchy looked…well, twitchier. The woman with pale hair was starting to match him, shifting her weight nervously. 

“Erm,” he coughed, and started over. “Not to be forward…but can we get to the point? You’ve summoned me here for _something_.” 

“Do not speak, Serpent,” Leader said, pulling back her ridiculous hood.

“Wh—” Crowley began, without thinking. His words mangled themselves in his throat, became a strangled hiss of pain as he resisted what she’d clearly intended to be an order. Right. Sigils that bound a demon to her will. 

She stared down at Crowley, expression somewhat awed, like she hadn’t expected that to happen—or that it would _work_. He glared back through the tinted lenses of his glasses. The pages of the book rustled loudly, echoed in the dank space around them as she leafed to a different section. Silence replaced it as the humans gathered around the circle exchanged wordless glances. Crowley didn’t move his head, eyes flickering to and fro to read their expressions. They held a mixture of emotions; shared but different for each person, and Crowley could pick out only a few. Unsteady confidence had begun to replace the fear they first held, now that their bindings were proving to hold true. The man on Crowley’s right—Twitchy—stiff as a concrete slab a while ago, trembled a little as the tension drained away from him causing the candle he held to flare and wave awkwardly, and the woman to his left, the one who’d forgotten to tuck the stray strands of her pale hair back had sweat beading across her forehead. Crowley couldn’t see the others, the ones behind him, and didn’t turn to look.

Leader took a deep breath, and then the long silence was over as she began to speak. Her voice carried through the dim space clearly, and she was careful to enunciate her words, each syllable sure and confident. It was Latin, of course, and as she continued on the meaning came clear to Crowley: an exorcism. He could feel the words begin to affect him, probing and prodding. Invisible insects swarmed over him, a barely-there tickle. A sense of dread barely had time to settle in his stomach before it picked up, hot stinging and prickling, burrowing into him. It tugged at him, at his _Self,_ obnoxious, irritating, but bearable. The insects slowly morphed into a cat’s icepick teeth and sickle claws the further along the words were read. Crowley gritted his teeth, and balled his hands into tight fists, but he didn’t do anything else. Wasn’t anything he _could_ do. 

And then agony lanced through him, blinding white flashes that sent him to his knees. The exorcism ripped at him, words and intent rending and tearing, and he was dully aware of a low, keening whine sounding from somewhere, over the meaningless train of speech that came from Leader. Scales threatened to replace pale skin, and his spine felt more pliable than should be normal as she continued. Crowley dug blunt fingernails into the concrete below him, pressed and scraped into the rough surface until they were frayed messes and his fingertips bled raw. Reminded himself that he had fingers, that he wanted to keep it that way. He refused the change that the words wanted to wrest from him, that flayed him apart and somehow kept finding a way to go deeper, get worse. Tiny little black scales found their way onto his arms anyways, deep ruby in places, sleek black in others, thin tissue replaced by armored plates. 

Crowley gave a wordless hiss and put himself back together, back into the scaleless, gangly form that he was now so accustomed to. Felt as if the effort had drained him completely, but the steady stream of Latin still found more to take. His swimming vision cleared slightly with Leader’s pause for breath. Crowley didn’t take it off the ground, though, chest heaving as he panted and shook, tremors wracking his frame in a cold sweat. But it was blessedly silent, and for a split second, he foolishly tricked himself into thinking that was it. 

No, it was far from over as it could be, he learned. Leader picked up where’d she’d left off, and this time, those gathered around the circle joined in, a mix of voices that were stilted and uncoordinated at first, but they quickly found their footing, and so did the exorcism. Crowley didn’t try to decipher the exact meaning of the passages they recited anymore, couldn’t make sense of a language he hadn’t practiced in ages while he was being tortured. While he’d had his dealings with exorcisms in the past, Crowley had never actually had the chance to _be_ exorcised. Not to the full extent, anyways. He wasn’t possessing anyone, and wondered if this was it, like holy water, just drawn out torture that lasted for Somebody knew how long before the end. 

The thought wasn’t too comforting. Crowley gasped, the pain doubling, and curled into a ball on the somewhat damp concrete floor, as if it could offer a respite, could stop his essence from being chewed up and spat out, only to repeat itself, over and over. Pride had hidden itself into the deepest depths of him, and at this point he might’ve begged for them to stop, if he was able to speak. But he wasn’t, and it didn’t stop, didn’t loosen its grip, even as the black, sucking tides of unconsciousness took him. 

Awareness came back to him slowly, scattered into fleeting wisps that drifted away aimlessly when he grasped for them. Crowley knew he was restrained somehow, lying on the damp concrete floor, heavy pressure on his wrists. Lights twinkled in the distance, or maybe he imagined them, broken little pinpricks that blurred in and out of focus—no, not lights. Candles, he remembered vaguely. They’d been using candles. A blindfold obscured his vision, the thin fabric letting tiny glimpses of the flames peek through. A shadow passed by them, set them dancing to a frenzied rhythm, in tune with the disturbances of the stifling air. And still the only thing he could smell past melted candle wax was the incense, overwhelming, all-encompassing. He couldn’t rely on anything except his hearing and partially compromised sight to map out the room and its occupants. 

His head was starting to clear, now, and Crowley felt a pang of unease as he took stock of himself— _something_ was draining the energy from his body, drinking hungrily at his essence, and he tried to curl away from it, but it kept him trapped, steadily taking more. Cool metal shackles dug into his wrists in response to the frantic movement. The shadow—one of the humans—took notice, and as Crowley turned his head towards them, more of the metal pressed against his throat, heavy and oppressive. _A collar,_ his mind supplied, and with the thought it seemed to close in on him further, choking. He could picture it, the thick metal band shrinking, smaller, smaller, and he had to take a jerky gasp of breath to dispel the image. 

He’d forgotten about the humans in his internal panic over the collar, and he only realized one of the figures had come to stand by his side when they reached a hand towards his face, blocking out the light from the candles. Crowley jerked away with a snarl, but there was nowhere to go, he realized helplessly as the collar tugged against him. Fingers brushed over his cheek before they moved to the blindfold, tugging it off in a single, swift movement. He was able to discern flashes of dark robes, sickly-pale skin, and the rickety support beams in the ceiling before it was all replaced by blinding light. Crowley screwed his eyes shut instinctively against it. Whoever stood above him steadied his head roughly and pried the lids of his left eye apart, then his right, still shining the bright beam of light into his face. After a moment they let him go, and the blindfold was slid back on. It was better than the light, at least. Bright starbursts were still imprinted into the backs of his eyes from it, and he attempted to blink them away under the safe darkness of the blindfold. 

Quiet footfalls that slowly grew quieter told him the person was walking away, and a tortured creak of hinges signified a door being opened, and then shut. Crowley gritted his teeth and twisted under the weight of the collar, feeling carefully at the cuffs encircling his wrists. They were metal, and thick, and there were odd grooves along the tops of them that _burned_ when his fingers made contact with them. He stopped touching them, fear curling inside him as he finally admitted to himself that he might have more of a problem than he’d originally thought. He’d dealt with this sort of this thing before, though, hadn’t he? He just had to wait it out. 

Crowley had never felt quite so exhausted as he did just now, with the sigils that adorned the room dragging power from him. Sleep had always been more of a pastime, but now he felt almost helpless against its pull. Kept finding himself drifting off without meaning to, and jerking back awake when he realized he was, the biting manacles and cool concrete welcoming him back each time. Struggling against the restraints was useless. The only response he got was the sound of metal clanking in the otherwise silent room and faint pain stemming from the places where metal met skin. He grit his teeth, a rising sense of frustration filling him. 

It was then that the door opened, giving way with a grating creak. He attempted to sit up straighter, angling his head towards the doorway. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t see anything past the Satan-blessed blindfold. Someone came to stand in front of him. Leader, if he had to guess. His assumption was confirmed once she spoke, voice clear and sharp even as it tried to fade into the damp concrete walls of the room. 

“How long do we have?” 

The question took a moment to settle before the bindings reacted, compelling him to answer. To obey. In answer, he blurted out, “Until what?” 

“The end of days, demon, the _apocalypse_ ,” she spat impatiently. 

Oh. _Oh_. Of course. Crowley felt a weight lifted off him, and let out a breathy laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that. The apocalypse, it isn’t going to happen—or rather, it already happened, depending on how—”

“Enough,” someone snarled, cutting him off, and the sense of dread crashed back. He remained silent, enough to hear the shuffling of their feet. 

“It must not be working,” someone else said. “He’s lying.”

“You’re right.” Leader’s voice echoed through. “It’s a demon, after all. Lying is what they do. Nothing we can’t fix.” 

“Nnngk,” Crowley managed to spit out in protest, throat burning as if someone had poured holy water down it. 

Predictably, their _completely unnecessary_ solution involved reading another passage from the book aloud. They were just wasting time with this. If only they’d had an _ounce_ of sense, and he could’ve explained everything properly—

A sweeping sense of discomfort ruffled him: the faintest itch of _wrongness_ , exactly like what he’d felt the last time they read from the book. Leader’s voice rang in his ears, accompanied by a barely discernible hum that slowly picked up in intensity until it was unbearable, and then—it retreated. No, it wasn’t retreating. It was just moving, clustering, focusing on his _wings_. 

Crowley held still, trying to ignore it, his wings aching. He needed to stretch them, just manifest them for a second, _anything_ to make the itch that was burrowing into his feathers stop. Only it wouldn’t be just for a second; he wouldn’t be able to put them back as long he was bound by the circle. The thought of the humans touching him strengthened his resolve. He could resist it long enough for them to give up. 

Time stretched out as he fought the invisible force. Crowley felt himself losing, folding under the pressure, but he could hang on a bit longer. Exhaustion won out, and with a defeated growl, he let his wings unfold, stretching them out to their full length, as far as they could, muscles trembling.

There was a soft click of a candle tipping onto its side as his wing brushed against it, and Crowley realized his wings stretched past the circle. Its hold on him flickered briefly, like the candle whose flame he’d snuffed out. Footsteps scrabbling in their haste to get away and soft gasps nearby made him wonder they’d intended for the results they’d gotten. 

Crowley planned on taking the advantage while he had it, swept his wings forward without thinking. His left caught resistance. Someone tripped, and landed flat on (what he hoped was) their face. In the bounds of the circle. He lunged for whoever it was, as good as free—they’d screwed this up about as far as they could screw it—and was caught short. He’d been too sure of himself, had forgotten about the heavy chains around his wrists. 

Someone was touching his wings, hands sliding against feathers, finding grips, tearing and pulling. Crowley tried to shake them off without success. 

“Go,” a voice snapped amidst the chaos. Leader’s. 

He realized what they were going to do a moment before they did it. There wasn’t time to try and shake them off again, and his wings were wrenched backwards roughly. The sound of bone breaking registered first, and a second later, the pain crashed into him so fully he had to bite back a scream and suck in rapid breaths. They didn’t stop, kept twisting and pulling his broken wings in the wrong direction, drawing white-hot agony from them. Crowley forced himself to move, one last attempt to push them away, and all that he could handle was a pathetic twitch that caused a tingling numbness to spread along the limb, and then his wingtips were being ground into the floor, pinned by the heel of a boot. Crowley finally screamed then, a hoarse cry that faded into nothing as the world splintered apart and fell into fire and crushing pressure. 

It was well past noon, and Crowley still hadn’t shown. For the first hour or two Aziraphale couldn’t help glancing out the window periodically, expecting to see the Bentley pull up to the curb, any minute now… Crowley would saunter inside with a quick apology, not looking apologetic in the least. He always tended to run a bit late, but by the time the fourth hour of waiting had come and gone, Aziraphale had given up. He eyed the telephone in annoyance, wondering why Crowley hadn’t had the decency to call, at the very least. 

Another day passed without word, and Aziraphale began to worry. It wasn’t _like_ Crowley to just disappear on him, without any explanation whatsoever. So he left the shop closed and found his way to Crowley’s flat, determined to find where the demon had disappeared to. 

The flat was as empty as he’d feared it would be when he arrived. Aziraphale poked around, checking the bedroom on the off chance that he was oversleeping again, but gave up searching rather quickly; he knew he wouldn’t find Crowley here. Still, he lingered inside for a while, found himself surveying Crowley’s collection of plants. None of the pots seemed too dry, and he decided they could probably withstand no water for a while better than his care. The Christmas cactus that Crowley’d gifted him sat on a windowsill in his bookshop, alive only by the power of many small miracles. Aziraphale shook himself, about to take his leave, but a shed leaf on the floor caught his attention. _That_ he could deal with, at least. He smiled gently at the plant who’d dropped it and swept it up in his hands wordlessly, disposing of the leaf on his way out. 

The Bentley sat in its usual spot, gleaming black paint glinting cheerily in the warm sunlight. Aziraphale approached it, gliding his hand over the door handle. With a soft _pop_ , it unlocked, and he opened the door. As he slid behind the wheel he felt Crowley—his imprint, a piece of him molded into the metal frame and the beige upholstery.

“I’m not sure what he’d say about this,” Aziraphale told the car nervously as he placed a hand on the wheel. It must have taken that as a prompt, because it started to life in response. He took a deep breath and closed the door he’d left open. Cars were easy enough to operate. A little more complicated than horses, certainly, but doable with a miracle or two. He focused on the leftover demonic presence that thrummed through the Bentley. If he did this right, it would lead him straight towards— 

The car lurched forwards, then braked abruptly. “Er. Sorry about that,” Aziraphale said, with a slight wince, and patted the dashboard hesitantly in apology. “No time to waste, then.” 

He counted it as a win that the car maintained the appropriate speed limit for the most part, and the long drive may have been somewhat relaxing if he wasn’t so frazzled over Crowley’s whereabouts. Night had fallen hours ago by the time the Bentley came to a stop, parking in front of a building that appeared to draw shadows into itself. It didn’t look any more occupied than the last few dilapidated buildings they’d passed, but Aziraphale stepped outside. Silently hoping he was in the right place, he headed towards the building, tension growing the nearer he drew. Pushing the feeling away, he pulled the flimsy wooden door aside and ducked through the entrance. 

It wasn’t much brighter inside but for a single table with a cluster of lit candles atop it. No sign of Crowley. He continued down the hall. The tang of incense filled his senses, almost enough to hide the mildew and mold. Aziraphale stopped in front of one of the doors, taking a second to prepare for whoever or whatever lay behind it. He swung it open, and strode forward. Five figures surrounded an awfully familiar pattern gouged into the concrete floor, and sitting in the middle of the pattern, chained and blindfolded, was an equally awfully familiar demon. He didn’t have time to check on Crowley, though, as the humans didn’t take long to react to his presence. One rushed towards him, tucking a thick book under her arm rather than setting it down before producing a dagger from her robes. The others weren’t far behind her, careful to avoid the marks on the floor. He stayed where he was, waited for them to come to him. 

She noticed, and a split second of hesitation flashed across her features. Decided to go for it anyway, and the next thing Aziraphale knew, a dagger was being hurtled across the short space between them, headed for his chest. He’d been ready, though, had anticipated the move a moment before she made it, eyes shifting between him and the distance, judging it. Aiming. The blade shattered. Burst into a million tiny shards, as if it was made of glass. Horror filled the woman’s gaze, reflected on the faces of her companions. 

“You’ll find it difficult to move. I wouldn’t advise trying,” Aziraphale told them after a moment of silence, smiling, although it held no warmth. 

None of them moved—they wouldn’t, even if he hadn’t been holding them there, and he knew it. Aziraphale turned his attention back to Crowley urgently, concern growing as he noticed what he hadn’t seen before—grey feathers, darkened by the blood that soaked them. Crowley’s wings were splayed out in plain view, bent wrong. He thought he glimpsed a flash of pale bone through the mess, but he moved his attention to Crowley again. He didn’t speak, not until Aziraphale pulled the blindfold off gently and cast it off to the side. He gave a slow blink in response to the sudden light, golden eyes worryingly unfocused.

“‘Ziraphale?” His voice was sandpaper-rough from disuse. _Or screaming_ , Aziraphale’s thoughts prodded darkly. 

“It’s me,” he assured softly, and got to work freeing Crowley without a second’s hesitation. The chains that held him in place were dealt with swiftly. Crowley didn’t waste a moment once his hands were free, reaching up towards his neck and scrabbling frantically at— _a collar_ , Aziraphale noticed with a sick feeling in his stomach. The symbols etched into the metal of the collar glowed slightly as he made contact with it. He made a noise of vexation when he couldn’t immediately find a way to wrench it off. 

“Crowley, let me, I’ll just take a moment.” It was too easy to pull the demon’s trembling hands away from the collar. It unclasped with a quick miracle. Crowley looked several degrees less panicked once Aziraphale took the collar off, listing to the side, spent. They couldn’t stay here, though. 

He looked up at the humans, all still in their positions, back down at Crowley, half-conscious and shaking, and finally the binding circle whose confines he crouched inside. Crowley didn’t protest as Aziraphale slung his arm over his shoulder and helped him stand, trying to be cautious of the mangled wings that trailed behind him, but they were inevitably jostled, and Crowley was unable to keep a wretched-sounding whine back. 

The humans had remained frozen in place with the exception of nervous glances flickering towards the two beings in their midst, but they flinched when the concrete beneath their feet began to split, minuscule cracks worming past, branching out like vines seeking sunlight. They stilled suddenly, stopping as quickly as they’d appeared, and then the cracks wrenched open rapidly, gaping wide, reducing the floor to a mess of concrete dust and chunks, the binding circle obliterated with it. 

Accommodating of Crowley’s slow, stumbling steps, Aziraphale didn’t look back as they made their exit, passing by the summoners and into the hallway, eager to get away from there, to get _Crowley_ away from there. If he had, he would’ve seen the one with the book gasp and drop the ancient tome to the ground as it began to smolder, would’ve seen it dissolve into ash as she looked on helplessly. For once, he didn’t shudder at the thought of a book being destroyed. 

As they continued down the musty hallway, he became increasingly aware of Crowley’s wheezing breaths, of the shivers that wracked his thin frame. Still, he stubbornly shook off Aziraphale’s attempt to pick him off his feet and carry him the rest of the way. “Sss’fine,” Crowley said, stumbling over the words in a series of halting, desperate pants that told Aziraphale he was in no way _fine._

Crowley had to lean more heavily on him for support as they limped on, biting back strangled sounds of torment that tore at Aziraphale’s heart. “Almost there. Just a bit farther,” he told Crowley as a way of reassurance, unsure if Crowley was even listening. 

It was when they finally burst out into the clear night air that Crowley’s knees buckled and he crumbled downwards with a poorly stifled groan. “You’re all right,” was all Aziraphale could think to say as he prevented Crowley from sprawling bonelessly onto the cracked asphalt beneath their feet. After a moment’s deliberation, he gathered him in his arms, heedful of his injuries. 

Teleportation always left Aziraphale dizzy, and he reeled as his surroundings shifted. He’d chosen Crowley’s flat, figuring the demon would be most comfortable there. The Bentley was parked safely back in its space too. 

Slitted eyes flickered open as Aziraphale walked carefully down the hall, but Crowley showed no other signs of wakefulness as he set him carefully on top of the thick duvet. He tried to be careful with Crowley’s wings, but it was near impossible not to jar the wings a little bit on acccident. His wings…

Crowley had a pained look even in unconsciousness, and it made Aziraphale feel even worse about what he was going to do. He didn’t want to do it, but if he didn’t set the bones back into place, it would just take much longer to heal. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he ran his fingers down the length of the first wing, one hand on either side of the break. The black feathers were matted with half-dried blood, sticking to him wherever he touched. “I’ll be quick,” he promised, and braced himself. He _really_ didn’t want to do this. 

Aziraphale sat beside Crowley in the consuming silence of the dark bedroom, checking on his wings for what had to be the tenth time within the last half-hour. They were already beginning to show signs of healing. Relief and weary sorrow chased Aziraphale’s emotions in circles, and the quiet weighed on him.  
He hadn’t meant for a book to appear in his hands, but he was staring down at a title, the one he’d left open at his desk. It was easy to find where he’d left off, and after a moment’s hesitation, he began to read it aloud. 

He fell into it easily, comfortably, but it wasn’t long after he began that Crowley stirred, his breaths quickening, lashes fluttering. Without a second thought, Aziraphale brushed a loose strand of hair back from his forehead, and Crowley leaned into the touch, the movement so minute that he wondered if he’d imagined it. Voice low, he went back to reading, although he couldn’t absorb much of what he was reading with his attention elsewhere, gaze straying from the page far too often. He kept it up for the rest of the night, reading and not really reading, letting the hours drag by. Crowley slept restlessly, but he never fully awakened. Aziraphale did what he could to comfort him, offering soft touches and soothing words and never once leaving his side. 

The morning dawned grey and cold, seeped across the overcast night sky. It spilled past the shuttered windows, and the subdued illumination lent a peaceful look to Crowley’s still form. Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn again to his wings, at once-sleek feathers now ragged and dull, and knew Crowley’s sleep was anything but peaceful. Guilt ate at him, made him remember that he’d waited two days before trying to check in on Crowley. He’d known _something_ was amiss—if he’d gone earlier, he could’ve prevented this from happening in the first place…

Aziraphale set the book down. He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped reading. Outside, the busy hum of traffic was coming back to life, people going about their lives as usual. A siren sounded somewhere in the distance, and the rain-sodden clouds finally broke. 

Time and space were scattered too sparsely for Crowley to make sense of. He’d been on fire, he’d been _falling_ all over again, bright agony searing at him—and then he felt like he was drifting along a river. No sense of where he was, and every time he tried to recognize a landmark, attempted to figure it out, the river carried him past another bend. Lazy little wavelets lapped about him, carrying snippets of sound, obscuring others. _It’s nice_ , he decided. Didn’t mind sinking deeper. Vague impressions of a soothing murmur and a press of warmth floated over the surface and dissolved into black. 

He didn’t know how long it had been before he was yanked back. They were reading from the book again, and terror sucked at his chest, blind and all-consuming. No… But the low voice stopped, just for a moment, and there was a sensation of fingers carding through his hair, and the voice was familiar. _I’m being read_ to. _There’s a difference._ Crowley didn’t question the thought that flickered past, a minnow darting through murky water. He sank back with it. 

The next time was easier. Softer. He cracked his eyes open, and made out nothing but blurs and the scent of fresh linen, mingling with tea leaves and cocoa. Crowley could sense something nearby. A warm, comforting presence. _Aziraphale._

He drifted off again, feeling secure, and didn’t resurface for awhile.

When Crowley came back to himself, he was grasping around emptiness where a collar should’ve been, dragging in ragged gasps. His heartbeat slowed as he took in his surroundings. 

He wasn’t there anymore. He was in his own flat, he was… Crowley glanced to the side, and was met by Aziraphale’s gaze. The angel offered a little smile. 

“You’re still here.” Crowley remembered, faintly, the sensation of bones grating and nightmares and drifting in and out of wakefulness, unsure what was dreamed or what was real. Aziraphale reading aloud to him as he drifted, a calming presence that never left his side. A hand grasping his, twining their fingers together and squeezing gently whenever he woke, reminding him that he was safe. A whisper coaxing him to sip at something hot that smelled of citrus and honey. 

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale said, looking worried. “You can go back to—”

Crowley guessed what he was about to say and shook his head, hating the thought of going back to sleep. “I’m fine. Don’t need to.” He hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t press the subject, and gazed at down his wings, spread out across the bed. His feathers were _filthy,_ matted and bent, but the wings themselves… Crowley flexed each in turn experimentally. They were healed. Twinges of pain nagged at him, but he hid it easily. “Good as new.” 

Aziraphale still looked doubtful. “Then something needs to be done about those feathers.” A guilty expression flitted over his face. “I did my best to get the blood out, but—”

“Right,” Crowley stopped him there, exasperated. Aziraphale needn’t feel _guilt_ , of all things, for helping him. “I’ll do that.” He slid off the bed and swiftly regretted it as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Further attempting to fold his wings led to more regret, and he hissed softly at the sore feeling.

“ _Careful_ ,” Aziraphale scolded, placing his hand firmly on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“I’m careful,” he said, but he didn’t bother arguing as Aziraphale walked him into the tiled bathroom, frowning. At least the shower was big enough for him to stretch his wings comfortably. 

Aziraphale gestured for him to sit on the stone bench. He obeyed readily. “I can do it myself,” he muttered, and it sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.

“You’ve helped with mine before.” Aziraphale turned the tap, and water sprayed downwards, wetting the floor.

Crowley stretched his left wing under the spray once Aziraphale had adjusted the pressure to his liking. The limb felt stiff, aching as he stretched it, but it was almost pleasant. “They were becoming an eyesore. You weren’t going to do anything about them.” 

“A few feathers out of place is hardly an eyesore.” Aziraphale moved closer, moving his fingers through the damp plumes. Grit and dried blood flaked off, mixed with the water, and ran into the drain. 

Crowley grimaced at the sight. “Here.” He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened, except that he felt significantly worse than a few seconds ago. What he’d _meant_ to happen was for a bottle of soap to appear into his hands. 

“I told you to be careful,” Aziraphale sounded exasperated. He softened. “Crowley, please. Just let me take care of you.” His eyes were pleading, and Crowley gave a half-shrug, half-nod of consent. 

Aziraphale uncapped the bottle of unscented soap that he’d miracled into his hands, squeezing some into his palm and starting at the top of Crowley’s wing, working suds into the coverts. Rust-tinged soap splattered onto the floor. Not a single droplet touched Aziraphale’s clothes, repelled easily with a thought. He moved further once the water started to run clear, smoothed out the primaries and secondaries.

At some point Crowley relaxed enough to let his eyes slide closed, leaning his head back against the wall. He didn’t notice Aziraphale was done with the left wing until he lightly poked him to get his attention. He shifted and extended his right wing, but he had to pause halfway, wincing at the pain that flared up. “It’s fine,” he mumbled before Aziraphale could say anything. He didn’t say anything, although Crowley could tell he was trying to work as fast as he could. It was a good thing, because by the end of it he was shaking with the exertion, and all he could think about was curling up somewhere warm and dry. 

Aziraphale guided him back, a steady, constant presence by his side. Crowley had never been so relieved to collapse into his bed, letting his eyes drift shut for a second. 

“I’m sorry, angel. Think I was late for lunch,” he said tiredly, cracking a smile. He’d almost completely forgotten about that in the wake of everything that had happened recently.  
He opened his eyes, and, to his horror, Aziraphale’s eyes were glistening, expression remorseful. “What’d I s—”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Aziraphale choked out, and Crowley didn’t know what he’d done wrong. 

Frowning, he replied, “You’ve no reason to be sorry, angel, you’re not the one who—”

“It’s my fault they had you so long,” Aziraphale said, looking miserable. “I should’ve looked for you earlier, I—”

It was Crowley’s turn to cut him off. “No. Not doing that. Nothing about this could _possibly_ be your fault. Right?” 

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced, didn’t speak. 

“You didn’t…hand that book over to those people and tell them to go ahead and use it to summon demons, right?” Crowley asked. “Or stand around a binding circle with them. Or…” he was flailing, now. Wasn’t an expert on making angels see sense. 

“Right,” Aziraphale replied finally, voice small. He didn’t sound entirely convinced, and he might’ve done it just to get Crowley to shut up, or because he was taking pity on the awkward train-wreck the conversation had become, but it was good enough for now. He felt himself drifting off to sleep, and shook himself back awake in annoyance, but exhaustion clung to him like dust to old cobwebs. 

“Sleep, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him, and settled next to him on the bed. He noticed a fleeting smile cross Aziraphale’s features, and as he rested his tired eyes the warmth was welcome. A flash of white feathers and the sensation of something being draped over him like a blanket were the last things Crowley remembered. Aziraphale would still be there when he woke up, and they’d be able to talk more, and everything would be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, as always! I live for comments and kudos.


End file.
